


hashtag yolo

by waldorph



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blanket Permission, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, M/M, Roman Catholicism, Sub Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Bucky meets Steve it's after Mass, and Bucky's too busy getting thrown up on to really make a note of it. In retrospect, that was a mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. take me to church

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. re: Underage--they're 16/17 in this, which is age of consent but not, obviously 18.  
> 2\. I started this almost a year ago on twitter, and I'm fairly certain that [aliassmith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aliassmith/works?fandom_id=1001939) started it and [foxxcub](http://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub) egged it on, and it lived in an email chain for a while, and the two of them are responsible for, I'd say at least 50% of this.  
> 3\. #yolo

Every Sunday the entire Barnes family goes to church, without fail. If the Barnes children are lucky, they do not have to attend Thursday’s Mass, but at least once a month their luck runs out: luckily there are four of them, so everyone takes a week, because Winifred Barnes is nothing if not concerned for their immortal souls. 

Bucky’s never really minded—sure he’d rather be sleeping, but there’s something comforting about it, dressing up, seeing the same people every week. Something mind-numbing about it, and he doesn’t mind living in that half-asleep place for an hour or so. Theirs is a congregation that, when there’s someone new, _everyone_ knows about it by the time the first hymn gets sung. Which is why, when Sarah Rogers—widowed, hospital ER nurse, first generation Irish immigrant—brings her son, it’s a big deal. 

“Oh my goodness, she _did_ manage to bring Steve,” Ma murmurs under her breath once Mass is over, and Bucky’s putting Becca’s coat on and glaring at Frank, who’s glowering mutinously at Alice, but subsides and allows the indignity of a hat. Sufficiently distracted, Bucky doesn’t pull a face at his mother, even though he’s always torn between hilarity and annoyed at the way she refuses to swear in church but will walk them out talking about what a goddamn bitch that Angela Dobreski is. 

“He’s sick so much,” Ma tells Dad, and Bucky glances up when she adds, “Oh, hi, Sarah! This must be Steve.” 

Steve Rogers is small, but not--sickly. He’s about the same height as his mother, but she’s small--maybe half a foot shorter than Bucky. His dirty blonde hair is styled carefully, his suit pressed and Bucky writes him off as one of those goody-goody nerds with a shrug while Frank keeps whispering louder and louder at him and seven year olds whispering is always kind of a crap-shoot where it’s more a campaign to fill your ear with as much spit as possible. Becca has collapsed against Bucky’s legs, because she’s six and life is hard at that age, and Alice is sitting in the pew again, staring up at the ceiling of the sanctuary with a martyred expression. 

Bucky thinks, not for the first time, his parents might have been a little less Catholic about their birth control methods.

“—Bucky,” his mother says, in the tone that means she’s said it a couple of times. Bucky rubs his ear and looks up. 

“Hey,” he says, and Steve glances at him from behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

“Hi,” he says politely, and Bucky thinks this is going to be one of those painful “Bucky, why don’t you and Steve become best friends!” situations with his mother, but he’s saved by Becca throwing up all over his feet. 

All in all, meeting Steve Rogers, the allegedly sickly, definitely small quasi-hipster really isn’t the most memorable part of the day.

* * *

Bucky meets the real Steve the following Tuesday, and it’s much more memorable. Bucky’s headed home from Tim’s—gaming night, mandatory attendance—and hears the sound of a fight in the alley. He starts to walk by, but he catches a glimpse of blond hair, three against one, and hears his ma saying “he’s sick so often.”

The DuCharme cousins are dumb and assholes, and Bucky thinks he mostly catches them by surprise, enough to make them swear when Travis takes Bucky’s fist to the side of his head.

Steve Rogers grins up at him, grotesque and bloody, and says, “I had ‘em on the ropes.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, snorting and pulling Steve up when Steve had held his arm out, flexing long, skinny fingers at him. Steve stands close, and Bucky kind of wants to step away, mouth dry, but doesn’t see why he should step away--Steve’s the one in Bucky’s space.

“Give me your phone,” Steve says, and Bucky frowns and hands it over, because he figures Steve’s going to call his mom. “They didn’t like how I told Mrs. Cheon that they were stealing,” he explains, thumbs moving over Bucky’s screen. “Like they can’t afford it.”

“Right,” Bucky says slowly, taking his phone back. “You’re--bleeding, a lot,” he says, and Steve sighs.

“It’s okay, Mom works nights on Tuesdays,” he says. “Thanks, by the way.”

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky replies, and Steve laughs, bright and loud and splits his lip, red beading up against the swell of his bottom lip. Bucky reaches out to--wipe it away, or something, and then stops himself because what the hell?

Steve is watching him, eyes dipping down to Bucky’s mouth before he dabs at his lip with the cuff of his shirt. “Text me,” Steve says, waving, and heads out the opposite end of the alley. Part of Bucky wants to follow him, make sure he doesn’t pick a fight or something--doesn’t fall over.

The other part of Bucky wants to run home and only ever see Steve Rogers from the opposite end of the church.

The text campaign of terror starts almost immediately, because of course Steve Rogers texted himself from Bucky’s phone.

> _i think i look more like i was blowing guys in an alley before getting beat to shit i can’t believe you didn’t walk me home. what about my honor buck_

Bucky stares at that for a long time before typing, _‘I didn’t really notice’_

> _you should let me it’d be the least i could do._

It takes Bucky a full five minutes to understand that Steve just offered him a blowjob. 

Steve is completely undaunted by Bucky’s refusal to text back after that, mostly because Bucky—

Bucky has a girlfriend. Kind of. Bucky and Laura Glover have been sort of hanging out for months, but mostly Bucky thinks they’re just “going out” so that Laura’s parents will leave her alone. They started dating sophomore year, and things were hot and heavy for a while but now...Bucky thinks mostly they haven’t gotten around to breaking up. But it’s fine--someone to take to dances and to wrap his arm around, to make out with at dumb parties, a solo cup gripped in one hand.

“You need a real girlfriend,” Tim is always telling him, and Bucky rolls his eyes because Tim Dugan is probably going to marry Irene O’Malley as soon as they’re eighteen, and sometimes that’s a little suffocating, even by proxy.

“I’m good,” Bucky always says, because he is. He likes this set-up. It’s—good.

He has no idea what to do with Steve Rogers, because he gets that text and has to take a cold shower—and then ends up jerking it to the memory of Steve’s split lip and the way he’d sounded and—what the _fuck?_

On Tuesday there’s a text waiting for him when he wakes up: 

> _split my lip again this morning biting it but gotta take care of business_

And Bucky groans into his pillow and DOES NOT picture Steve Rogers jerking himself off, biting his lip hard enough to split it again when he comes. 

At lunch it’s: 

> _the more i think about it the more i have to make it up to you. come on buck don’t make me owe you_

“What’s that?” Tim asks, and Bucky slams his phone down. Which is exactly the wrong move. “Are you SEXTING?” Tim demands, delighted, and Jim and Gabe both laugh at him when they sit down, trays in hand. 

“Bucky finally getting some?” Jim asks. 

“Fuck you,” Bucky says. “Dugan I swear to God—“

“Thought Catholic boys aren’t supposed to do that,” Gabe tsks, and Bucky flips him off with the hand that isn’t cradling his phone to his chest. 

Jacques is the one who gets it away from him, because he’s French and tricky, and Bucky grabs for it and falls off the bench. 

“You know this is sexting, yes?” Jacques asks after reading. He seems like he’s genuinely asking, like he’s not sure Bucky’s quite smart enough to pick up on the fact that he’s being offered blowjobs and that a dude was jerking it thinking about him. “Only thing missing is a dick pic.”

“Please never say that again,” Gabe says, and Jaques grins at him before turning Bucky’s phone on him. 

“Perhaps he will like you on your knees,” Jacques muses as he takes a picture, and Bucky tackles him while his asshole friends crack up. He grabs his phone and heads towards the bathroom, staring at the picture of him on his fucking knees, a little blurry and reaching out and God _damnit_. He’s typing out an apology as he shoulders into the bathroom, he’s got to explain, fuck, fuck, he doesn’t want to give Steve the idea that he’s—

> _you’re really pretty on your knees buck_

Bucky stops by the sink, staring at the phone. He can’t—move. He just keeps staring at that line of text, waiting to see if there’s more, if that—that can’t be _it_. 

But it is, and that’s all there is until Thursday, when he gets a text: 

> _i’ll pick you up, come with me to the Met, I need to go for class and it’ll get you out of mass_

Which—Bucky really hates Thursday mass, so he types back: ‘ok’

And they go to the Met and Steve talks and talks about art being transcendental, and his thin hands sweep through the air as he gestures, one of them wrapped around Bucky’s wrist as he explains something about paint patterns that Bucky only kind of gets. And Steve’s cool with that, though, with the fact that Bucky has no fucking idea about brush strokes, tugs him through exhibits and pauses when he catches Bucky lingering over something. 

Steve’s an only child, and he’s had a lot of time to do this—to come to museums and go outside of their neighborhood—outside of Brooklyn—in a way Bucky never really got to. 

And it’s all—it’s just friendly. Steve’s hand on Bucky’s wrist, the way he opens doors, or touches the small of Bucky’s back to guide him. It’s all for a half-second, anyway, almost too quick to catch, and Bucky’s not going to—

It’s not like that. 

It takes less than a month for Bucky’s mother to comment on the fact that he’s hardly ever home. 

“I think it’s nice,” she decides. “Steve is such a nice boy.” 

Bucky stares at her, because Steve got them kicked out of a movie theater for telling a kid to shut the fuck up, and he has no concept of personal space and sometimes the way he looks at Bucky makes Bucky want to go down on his knees, which freaks him right the fuck out and Bucky’s been to church a _lot_ recently, but can’t quite bring himself to go to Confession. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Nice.”

* * *

Laura breaks up with Bucky on a Thursday. 

“I mean, it’s not really breaking up,” she says, leaning against the locker next to his.

“No,” he agrees. 

“Plus we’re both gay, so—“

“I’m not—“ Bucky says. “I’m—“ 

Laura frowns at him. “Um?” she manages. “The guy who picks you up almost every day outside of school isn’t your boyfriend?” 

“No,” Bucky croaks.

“Buck,” she says gently, squeezing his arm. “Have you told _him _that?”__

__It’s enough to rattle him, to realize that he looks now, instinctively sweeping the sidewalk for Steve, who should be hard to spot, given that he’s all of 5’2, but never is._ _

__Fuck. Fuck. _Is_ Steve his boyfriend? Not that Bucky is—but does Steve _think_ he is?_ _

__“What are you, sick?” Steve asks when Bucky finally makes it over to him._ _

__“No,” Bucky says, and Steve nods and grabs Bucky’s coat, tugging, dragging Bucky to the train. Bucky doesn’t say anything, just lets Steve talk about—Christ, is he talking about the drought in California? Bucky just zones out, because Steve makes him nervous, and Bucky’s not sure if he should bring up the whole boyfriend thing. He could just say it, tell Steve Laura broke up with him because she thought he was gay—well, and because she’s a lesbian, but also that she thinks Steve and Bucky are together and isn’t that fucking hilarious, Steve?_ _

__“Wait, what?” Bucky asks, realizing Steve’s talking _to_ him now, not just at him. _ _

__“It’s a simple question,” Steve says, grinning. It was, Bucky realizes, a mistake to sit here, caught between the rail and Steve, no easy escape. For a little guy, Steve Rogers takes up a lot of space, and Bucky drops his gaze quick because Steve just looks—looks like he’s got Bucky right where he wants him and Bucky’s fucking face feels hot._ _

__“Fuck off,” Bucky says, not nearly as hard as he wants to. Problem is, it’s nowhere near hard enough to be convincing. Nowhere near enough to make Steve stop, not that Bucky has a goddamn clue what might make Steve stop, or even what they’re talking about, but given the look on Steve’s face he can make a couple guesses._ _

__“Come on,” Steve says, leaning in a little further. No one’s paying any attention to them, the car is mostly empty, just a group of college-age girls talking quietly to each other at the other end. Bucky swallows back the urge to tell them he feels unsafe. “I think about you,” Steve goes on, and Bucky stops glancing around to stare at him._ _

__It’s like a goddamn punch to the gut, is what it is._ _

__“What?” he manages._ _

__“When we met? I went home and jerked off thinking about your pretty mouth, Buck,” Steve says, like it’s a casual kind of thing that you say to your friends._ _

__Jesus Christ._ _

__“I—“ Bucky says, and can’t even finish the sentence._ _

__“Do you think about me sucking you off?” Steve asks. “Or any guy? Ever slip a finger in your ass in the shower?”_ _

__Bucky isn’t going to answer that, because telling Steve that he’s been slipping fingers in his ass since he first started jerking it was only going to dig himself further into this hole he’s in. Giving Steve Rogers any kind of leverage is a fucking mistake, and Bucky only looks stupid._ _

__Steve’s hand is sliding up Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky tracks it helplessly, the way Steve’s fingers graze his inseam, squeeze a little and then slide, smooth as silk._ _

__It’d be a lie, to say that he didn’t—Steve hasn’t been subtle. But it’s like he knows something Bucky doesn’t—Like he knows something about Bucky that Bucky doesn’t. Bucky’s desperate to know what it is, but at the same time thinks maybe it’d be smarter to just stay inside, not answer Steve’s texts. Bucky has a goddamn girlfriend—or. Well, he did. He’s str—he’s not—God, he can’t think._ _

__Steve leans into him a little more, presses a soft kiss to the skin just under Bucky’s ear. Steve is more than half a foot shorter than Bucky; he shouldn’t seem this scary. Bucky could absolutely take him in a fight._ _

__“Come on, it’s our stop,” Steve says, slim hand wrapping around Bucky’s wrist, casually proprietary._ _

__“Church?” Bucky asks, and Steve sighs and says,_ _

__“Ma wants me to go to Thursday mass, and if I have to, so do you. Sorry, Met next time, I promise.”_ _

__Bucky’s parents are probably going to be thrilled. They’ve been so glad, Bucky getting his hair cut (Steve had gripped the long hair thoughtfully, asked Bucky if it was because he liked giving people something to hold onto. Bucky still doesn’t know if it would have been worse to leave it, because Steve had smirked knowingly when Bucky had showed up the next day with it cut)._ _

__“It’s nice,” his mom had said. “You two will be good for each other. God knows the Rogers family’s had a hard enough time.”_ _

__Bucky thinks his mother is fucking deranged, because Steve Rogers may be blond and blue-eyed and beautiful, but he’s also clearly the devil._ _

__Bucky starts to head in, towards the sanctuary, but Steve pulls him around, down the stairs and towards the rooms used for Sunday School and Bible classes and church meetings and storage._ _

__“What’re we—?”_ _

__“Well, I’m not actually going to Mass,” Steve says, like it’s obvious, and pulls Bucky into a small room. Bucky looks around, and thinks it must have been a—he doesn’t know. Room for prayerful contemplation? There’s a huge crucifix on the wall, and it’s carpeted, a small kneeler set up in front of it._ _

__“So we’re just going to hang out here until Mass is over and hope your mom doesn’t ask Father Rafferty?” Bucky asks, and Steve grins, locking the door and sitting against the wall._ _

__“I was with you,” he points out. “And she keeps telling me how nice it is, that I’m friends with such a good boy.”_ _

__Bucky ignores the weird way that makes his stomach swoop, sitting down beside Steve. It’s nice in here, actually. Close and warm, the old light shining in that faded yellow-ish way that Bucky always associates with church._ _

__“I’m your get-out-of-jail-free card?” Bucky asks, and Steve laughs a little._ _

__“Yeah, something like that.”_ _

__Bucky grins at him, and Steve leans in a little. It’s funny, Bucky thinks, how he can go from nonthreatening to—whatever the hell it is. Bucky swallows and looks away._ _

__“Come on, Steve, don’t, it’s not funny,” he says, picking at the knee of his jeans._ _

__“I’m not really laughing, Buck,” Steve says, shifting up onto his knees. He leans in, and Bucky tracks him out of the corner of his eye, feels the way his hand lands on the back of Bucky’s neck, hot and heavy. “Come on,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over Bucky’s. “Come on, Bucky. Kiss me.”_ _

__Bucky’s lips part on a desperate exhale, and Steve is there before he can inhale again, sliding his lips over Bucky’s like he’s never doubted that Bucky would let him._ _

__Steve is smaller, but Bucky’s the one who’s crowded against the wall, tilting his face up as Steve kneels over him, straddling one of Bucky’s legs and when he shifts, his thigh presses right against Bucky’s dick. He pauses for a second, pulling back and letting Bucky breathe before grinning, sliding a hand down to cup Bucky through his jeans._ _

__“Don’t—“ Bucky gasps, hips bucking up into him helplessly._ _

__“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna stop,” Steve murmurs, and fuck him, that’s not—Bucky doesn’t think that was what he was going to say, but it’s so hard to remember when Steve is kissing him breathless, his thigh a perfect pressure on Bucky’s dick._ _

__Steve pulls back, and he looks vaguely assessing, before he says, “Bucky, let me fuck you.”_ _

__Bucky stares at him, waits for Steve to laugh, but he doesn’t. He just keeps the pressure on Bucky’s dick, eyes so fucking blue, and Bucky closes his eyes and leans in for another kiss._ _

__He means okay, he means yes, but he can’t find those words, doesn’t want to have to say them. It’s—easier. To follow Steve, to react to Steve, and Steve, thank fuck, gets it. Kisses him and then pulls back and says, “I’m gonna take such good care of you, Buck.”_ _

__Bucky believes him, because Steve Rogers is wicked smiles and a stunning lack of boundaries, but he also rescues strays (the Rogers’ have eight strays and Sarah keeps threatening to kick Steve out if he feeds them again) and thinks art is transcendental and hates bullies._ _

__Steve peels Bucky’s clothes away like he’s unwrapping a present, fingers tweaking Bucky’s nipples and fingernails dragging up Bucky’s sides, and he feels feverish by the time Steve pushes him to the middle of the room._ _

__“Keep your hands here,” Steve says, putting them on the kneeler. “Hold this.”_ _

__He has to look obscene, jeans around his knees and shirt rucked up to his armpits, prostrated before the crucifix with Steve—_ _

__God, Steve’s going to fuck him. Bucky’s never even thought about it, not really, and here he is all spread out and—he presses his flushed face into his hands and bites his lip when Steve’s wet—what the fuck?—fingers trail over his hole._ _

__God, he feels so fucking filthy, but when he glances behind him and Steve with a couple of those single-packs of lube, he can’t choke back the laugh fast enough. Steve grins at him, even while he works a couple fingers into Bucky._ _

__“You’re a fucking boyscout, Rogers,” Bucky says, and Steve slaps his ass, grinning broadly. Bucky’s hips snap forward at that, and they both pause a little, Bucky shocked and Steve speculative._ _

__“No, but I’m gonna fuck one,” Steve says, and slaps him again, right in the meat of Bucky’s ass, then running his palm over the spot like he’s trying to smear the flare of red. Bucky’s so fucking hard, what the fuck, what the fuck._ _

__“You done this before?” Steve asks, fingers slipping in Bucky’s stretched hole._ _

__“Sure,” Bucky lies. It feels like he’s giving too much up, like he has to draw some kind of line here. He’s giving it up in a fucking prayer room in the basement of their church, letting Steve spank him and fuck him and it’s petty, to want to keep this one thing from Steve._ _

__“Liar,” Steve says, and slides in._ _

__Bucky feels like he’s being split open. His back bows, and Steve drapes over him, running a hand up and down his chest soothingly._ _

__“You’re so good, Bucky. So good, you’re doing so well, so fucking tight around my dick. Such a good boy, you’re so fucking perfect, Buck. Fucking perfect.” He sounds drunk and worshipful, and Bucky clings to that as his body adjusts. He feels full, not just his ass but somewhere in the pit of his stomach, like if he pressed below his belly he’d be able to feel Steve’s dick inside him, and fuck—_ _

__His own dick jumps at just the thought, and Bucky lets out a breathless moan._ _

__“Can I?” Steve asks._ _

__“Yeah,” he says, and Steve pulls back, settles behind him and starts fucking him._ _

__“Oh God,” Bucky groans, when Steve hits—something. A bright spot inside him, and Steve makes a pleased sound like he was fucking aiming for that, and then keeps at it. He doesn’t hit it every time, but enough that Bucky’s dick is drooling and he wants to jerk it, but Steve’d said to keep his hands there and somehow that means Bucky can’t move them. It’s important that he leave them there, that Steve keep telling him he’s doing a good job, that he’s so good._ _

__He’s making noise, he knows he is. Thinks he’s begging, though he doesn’t quite know what for, while Steve fucks him open, selfish and brutal and so fucking good. He thinks he’s drowning, and then Steve’s coming inside him. Bucky can feel it, the slick feeling deep inside him, the way Steve’s dick twitches inside him, fingers digging harder into Bucky’s hips._ _

__“Shit, Bucky,” Steve exhales shakily, staying there for long, long minutes before pulling out. Bucky’s still breathing hot against his hands, fingers white-knuckled, his dick hard and ignored and ass suddenly empty, trying to clench as Steve’s come slides down his thighs. “I got you,” Steve whispers. “God, what—oh my God. Bucky. Bucky you’re so fucking perfect, you’re just—come here, let go, come here.” He pulls Bucky off the kneeler clumsily, settles Bucky against him, cradling Bucky back-to-chest, and starts jerking him off, clumsy, no finesse. “Let me see it,” Steve says, voice hoarse and deeper, and it goes straight to Bucky’s balls, “Come for me.”_ _

__Bucky presses his face into Steve’s neck and comes so hard he hits them both in the face._ _

__“You’re so perfect,” Steve says, slender fingers scooping up come and pressing it against Bucky’s mouth. Bucky lets him, licks his fingers clean because that’s what Steve wants and Bucky can’t do anything but give it to him. He’s in this perfect hazy spot where—where he doesn’t _have_ to think about it. Doesn’t have to think about anything except the way Steve’s got him._ _

__They stay there for a while, Steve stays wrapped around him and telling him what a good job he did, and Bucky’s dimly aware of the fact that his skin feels tacky, that there’s still come sliding out of his ass onto the carpet, and that they didn’t even use a condom, what the fuck. But that all seems like background noise, secondary to the feeling of Steve’s hands running up and down Bucky’s arms, his fingers stroking through Bucky’s hair._ _

__Eventually, though, Steve helps him get dressed again, puts him back together and kisses him, grinning like they just got away with something huge._ _

__“You know what this means, though,” Steve says as they walk towards Bucky’s apartment building, thankfully close because between the ache in his ass and the weakness in his legs he’s finding walking really, really hard. Difficult. Fuck._ _

__“That you’re going to be a pain in my ass literally now?” Bucky asks, shaky, trying to hide it. It works—or at least, Steve laughs as he leans against the wall as Bucky unlocks his front door._ _

__“That you’re mine,” Steve corrects, and smacks Bucky’s ass before pushing off and heading down the block._ _

__Bucky tells his mom he’s feeling sick and goes to his room. He strips down and throws himself into bed, wraps a hand around his dick and slides the fingers of his other hand into his still-wet ass, and comes again with you’re mine rattling around his head._ _

__He’s so fucking fucked._ _


	2. At the Movies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve takes Bucky out.

Friday is weird. Bucky feels like everyone should be able to tell what he did, and what was hot and kind of dirty yesterday now feels...

Well, not less hot. But the swooping in his stomach feels more like a stone, and he's embarrassed, humiliated. What if Steve makes fun of him? What if he _tells_ someone else? His mother will kill him—more for the losing his virginity in the church basement than the gay thing, now that Francis is Pope she’s gone weirdly liberal. 

Oh fuck, Bucky lost his virginity in the church basement on his knees in front of a crucifix.

“The hell is wrong with you today?” Tim asks him after lunch. “You sick? You’ve been walking weird and you look like you’re going to throw up.” 

That’s another thing no one tells you about taking it up the ass—that feeling, that bruised feeling, it lingers, like Steve’s marked him up somewhere deep, and Bucky’s not sure how he feels about that, either, because Steve’s been silent all day. 

“I’m—yeah, maybe sick,” Bucky says, and Tim nods and then starts complaining about how he’s supposed to have memorized Hamlet’s soliloquy for English at fourth period and how that’s impossible. 

So it's not a great day, and he's thinking of heading home and faking sick through the weekend so he doesn't have to deal with anything, except that Steve is waiting for him outside, because Steve has a free period at the end of the day that he uses to make sure that he’s always there when Bucky gets out of school. Which just—great. 

Bucky can tell him to fuck off. He can. 

He won’t, probably, but he _could_.

 

When Bucky gets closer he sees that Steve’s got a fresh bruise on his chin, and Bucky sighs, distracted entirely.

"Seriously?"

"Asshole was asking for it," Steve says, heading towards the station. "Come on, we're seeing a movie."

"Nothing good is out," Bucky argued, because there isn’t.

"I want to see a movie," Steve says, and Bucky sighs and slouches as they waited for the train, because he's obviously losing this fight, and he’s still kind of pissed about Steve not texting after—well, _after_. 

Steve decides he wants to see some action flick that’s been out for over a month, but at least if Bucky's forking over the money for tickets it's still a matinee showing. He makes Steve pay for the popcorn and soda, and tries not to feel weird about it, but his stomach is all in knots and Steve keeps on invading his space. Bucky’d head for the bathroom if he didn’t think Steve would follow him, and the thought of getting his dick out in front of Steve is a little much for him right now.

There are a couple people in the theater, and Steve climbs to the back row, sits in the furthest corner. 

“Speaker,” he says, pointing, and Bucky doesn’t call bullshit but it’s not like he doesn’t know it is. He could, he knows, argue. Steve knows it too, does that thing where he’s watching to see what Bucky will do, and Bucky sits down and puts the popcorn in his lap and ignores the way Steve smiles. He absolutely doesn’t flex his back and shift his hips because it’s not a hurt like falling down stairs and bruising your tailbone, it’s deeper and unsettling and he’s not going to give Steve satisfaction

A group of girls settles in front of them, a little bit over—paused and looked at him and then decided to sit right in front and Bucky makes a face because he doesn't need Steve to have any fucking ammo.

“They think you’re hot,” Steve murmurs, under the sound of the previews, and Bucky shifts, swallowing. He knows—he knows people think that. But it’s different when Steve says it, less flattering and more—Bucky can’t explain it, but it’s like everything Steve says is kind of a threat.

“This is boring,” Steve decides twenty minutes later as the hero stares at a picture of his recently-departed father and the violins soar, and Bucky winces because bored Steve is dangerous Steve. “We’re gonna play a game.” 

Bucky watches as Steve takes the popcorn and puts it on the arm-rest. 

“Hold that,” he says, and Bucky does without thinking. Steve smiles, pleased, and it makes Bucky want to smile back.

And then Steve’s dropping down onto his knees, folding into the narrow space between Bucky’s legs and the next row easily. 

“Here’s how you play,” Steve says, gripping Bucky’s hips and pulling him forward a little, dragging him into a slouch before unbuttoning the top of Bucky’s fly. “You’re not gonna move. You’re gonna be so good, and you’re gonna keep eating popcorn and watching this shitty movie. Those girls are gonna keep looking back at you, and when they do, you’re gonna smile at them.” He’s dragging Bucky’s zipper down, pulling his jeans open and pulling Bucky’s dick out of his boxer briefs, pumping it lazily. Bucky can’t fucking breathe. “Tilt up for me,” Steve says, and Bucky does, lifting himself enough for Steve to—jesus, pull his jeans down, leave Bucky exposed and they’re going to get arrested, what the fuck is he doing?

Steve presses a kiss, lush and wet, to the head of Bucky’s dick. “And you’re not gonna come until I say so. You’re gonna be really, really good, Bucky. I can tell,” Steve adds, helpfully putting the bag of popcorn on Bucky’s thigh and grinning wickedly before he opens his mouth and takes Bucky down. 

Bucky stares blankly at the screen. There’s probably an hour before credits, and fuck Steve, seriously, what the—

He tenses his thighs takes a bite of popcorn. Steve is—Steve is good at this. Clever fingers and warm mouth and suction, god, Bucky’s been blown before, but nothing like this. Steve strokes his fingers along the smooth skin behind Bucky’s balls, gets him all worked up, ready to come, to the point where Bucky can’t fight it, he can’t, not by biting his lips or watching the movie or remembering that they’re gonna get arrested. But then Steve backs off, presses kisses to the insides of Bucky’s thighs and murmurs praise that makes Bucky’s stomach swoop, that starts seeming like it’s as important as the recycled oxygen Bucky’s getting fucking high off of. 

During the final battle, the big climax scene, Steve slides a slippery finger around Bucky’s hole. Bucky thinks he should—that if he wasn’t fucking dying for it he’d clench up, but his body gives it up for Steve so easy, lets Steve’s finger in to the second knuckle, and Bucky wants to—he doesn’t know. Ride the finger, maybe, or get another one, or fuck up into Steve’s mouth or just—just come, please. 

Steve doesn’t give him any of it, though. He slides back up, pulls Bucky’s jeans back up and puts him together and Bucky stares at him, head lolled against the back of his chair, breath coming fast and shallow. His dick feels sore, his ass weirdly empty, and his abs hurt, and his thighs are trembling like he’s run a mile. 

“Christ,” Steve swears, swooping in and kissing him. Steve’s mouth is salty and slick with the taste of Bucky, and his hand on the back of Bucky’s head is firm, grounding, the sting when he tugs at Bucky’s hair feels—good. 

“God, you’re perfect,” Steve says, and Bucky smiles a little, hazily pleased, and Steve kisses him again before standing up. “Come on,” he says, and tugs Bucky up. On the screen, the hero is sharing a somber yet hopeful moment with the love interest, and Bucky is trying to navigate going down stairs with a hard-on. 

The girls watch him go curiously, and Bucky is red as Steve pulls him out of the theater and into the hall, down into the bathroom, locking the door to the handicapped stall behind him. Bucky’s head feels a little clearer, now that they’re under the bright lights, and he turns around accusingly.

Steve surges up, though, pulls Bucky down and kisses him hard enough to knock whatever the hell he was going to say out of his head. Bucky’s so damn hard, and Steve whispers,

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, Buck. Come on, lean over, bend over, I’ll take care of you. Get your pants down, Bucky, come on, I’ll take care of you, give you what you want.” 

There are other guys filtering in, laughing and bitching about their movies, pissing and it’s fucking surreal, the way Steve is lubing up. Bucky wants to demand what the fuck—does Steve just carry lube around with him in packets, hoping that someone will bend over for him? Or was he that sure of Bucky (and God, does Bucky even want the answer to that)? But he’s terrified to make any noise, unless someone notices the two pairs of feet under the door of this stall—or worse, someone in a wheelchair needs it. Bucky’s face flushes even hotter at the thought of being caught like that, but his dick pulses and Buck’s relieved, a little, to feel Steve’s dick pressing against his hole. 

When Steve slides in it stings a little, presses against bruises that aren’t exactly hypothetical anymore. It makes him feel full in a way he can’t quite articulate—filled up and getting fucked and desperate for it, still sore from yesterday but so hungry for it again. He grips the handicapped bar, bent in half and giving it up, what the fuck is wrong with him? He turns his face into his shoulder to try to muffle the sounds building up in his throat while Steve fucks him open, steady, building up, and then they’re alone again, and it’s just the echoey sounds of Steve fucking him in the empty bathroom. Bucky feels split open and grateful and raw, and when Steve comes in him Bucky can feel it, hot and deep inside him and he wants to clench and keep it there. Steve’s hand is hard on Bucky’s hip and the other one is almost a vice grips around his neck. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathes, “Okay, Buck, let go, give it up for me.”

And Bucky doesn’t understand it, really, why the tension flows out of him and he just—does. Gives it up, holding onto the rail and shooting on the tiled wall. He sort of loses it after that, and Steve huffs a laugh and helps him sit on the toilet, which is just—he can feel that he’s all swollen and that there’s jizz leaking out of him and it’s just. But Steve wipes him down and presses kisses to his lips and Bucky just tilts his head up for them because Steve’s kisses are—he loves them. Steve’s kisses aren’t ambiguous or threatening they’re possessing and consuming and Bucky knows where he stands when Steve is kissing him, pulling on his hair or tweaking a nipple. 

Steve springs for a cab, and he takes the keys to Bucky’s house out of his pocket and he strips him down and puts him into bed. It occurs to Bucky distantly he should be a little embarrassed of the room—his desk is a mess and he didn’t close his closet door—but he just doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about anything except for the hand Steve keeps running through his hair, the way Steve’s looking at him like Bucky’s wonderful, like he’s unexpected, and a gift, and Bucky would blush but he just smiles sleepily. 

It’s nice. 

He wakes up to a weight on his back and a dick in his ass, which is—god he’s sore, and swollen, and…wet. 

Really wet. 

Like Steve used an entire bottle of lube up his ass wet. 

“The fuck,” Bucky mumbles against the pillow, and then yelps, and then looks frantically at his clock: 2:34. No one else will be home for another four hours, Frank has piano and Alice has gymnastics and Mom or Dad will have Becca so it’s not like anyone’s going to walk in, which thank god because Bucky doesn’t know how he’d explain this. 

Steve would probably just smile at his parents and keep fucking. 

“Shhh, so good,” Steve murmurs, pressing in, fucking in deep, and Bucky’s nerves sing and his ass feels hot and sore and really fucking good. “Shit, I’m gonna get you one of those plugs and just keep you open like this, so I can just bend you over and give it to you. Keep you all filled up.” 

The sound Bucky makes is more of a wail, and Steve arches up, presses a sloppy kiss to the side of Bucky’s mouth and Bucky tries to return it. He feels—it’s like he’s coming, but there’s nothing coming out of his dick, just the friction against the sheets and Steve’s dick hitting that really good spot inside of him like a hammer. It’s too much and not enough and Bucky’s screaming into his pillow, sobbing. 

Eventually Steve pulls out, and he wraps himself around Bucky like an ineffective blanket, but Bucky curls into him. Steve’s breath is a little wheezy and he’s panting hard, and Bucky never realizes that when Steve flushes it goes all the way down his chest, fading around the bottom of his ribcage. Steve has a mole under his left nipple, and freckles across his shoulders, and Bucky’s hands are restless, greedy. Steve’s eyes are blue and calm and Bucky tilts his face up and makes an impatient noise and Steve smiles, smiles like he’s happy, and he bends and kisses Bucky. 

It’s nice, making out. Lazy and exploratory and comforting, and after a while Steve says, “Come on, let’s get you in front of the TV, I’ll run a load of laundry and air out the room.” 

Bucky would feel bad about Steve having to do that, except that he’s been fucked three times in the last 36 hours and honestly laundry is the least Steve can do. He puts on pajamas (slowly! So slowly) and wraps himself in a blanket and settles in front of a Golden Girls rerun, and then falls immediately asleep. 

When he opens his eyes again it’s to the sound of terrible siblings running around and Steve saying, “He’s not feeling great, Mrs. Barnes,” Steve is saying, and Bucky lifts his head up from the couch groggily to see his mother headed towards him worriedly. “I hope it’s okay I washed his sheets he was sort of feverish and Ma always says clean sheets make the best sleeping when you’re sick.” 

Bucky stares at him, at this earnest bullshit act Steve is pulling, and when Steve glances at him Bucky flips him off. Steve grins and then looks back up at Ma, who’s telling him what a good friend he is, but he should probably get home himself, she knows how his health is. Steve thanks her and says, 

“I’ll see you at church, maybe, Bucky. Feel better!” 

Bucky pulls the blankets over his head. The front door closes, and ten seconds later his phone buzzes. 

_I wasn’t kidding about the plug_

Bucky groans.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Blanket Permission:** go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or email and I'll put a link in the story notes!
> 
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